


Saving You

by ghettoassenglishman



Series: Take my hand--Take My Whole life too [49]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Harm, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 08:49:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3971590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghettoassenglishman/pseuds/ghettoassenglishman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey didn't understand Ian's need for a "Suicide List" until he gets a series of panicked text messages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Letting Go

Ian stares down at the pool of blood on the floor, his blood, built by the thick trickle coming out of the slit in his thigh. The pale skin slowly turning crimson. He can't really remember how he got inside of the bathroom, nor how he got the blade in the first place, all he knew was that after flushing his pills he felt worthless; like he failed, that he had let them all down because on one useless trigger.

Worst of all, he had let Mickey down.

He can see the knife beside him, handle and blade stained with blood, inches away from his red, painted fingers. He can feel the stickiness covering his left thigh, like plaster board, harsh against the hairs; he can feel the deep gashes sting, and clench, as he moves. He can smell it, the string, metallic odour invading his nose, chilling up his spine.

Half an hour ago, he told himself that this would be five minutes, that he wouldn't even take the blade to his skin in the first place.

He can remember the first cuts, the hurried slashes in anger against his skin, each one of his winces muffled by the fabric of his shirt. The more he did, the less he could remember. It was all a blur, as if his mind was elsewhere, thriving off each cut. The panic had been washed from his body, replaced with a calm sensation, all of his limbs relaxing as the blood trailed down his skin.

He wishes he could just sleep. Sleep forever. Take all the pain away and actually be happy.

The voices grew louder, the urge turned more intense.

Without thinking, he picks up the wet knife, drawing it over his skin to create a dark, fleshy slit, letting the tip of the blade slice a wound open, a little too deep this time.

He hisses in relief. He needed this. Just to be calm.

Ian's hands are covered in red, all red, embedded under his nails. He doesn't mind it that much, he'd seen it all before. He brings the knife up again,

Another.

Once more.

This was the last.

Definitely the last.

Okay, no, this one is.

Gotta make it even.

Fuck it, never stop.

Can't do this. Never could he do this.

It will never be better.

Ian looks down through his blurry eyes, head slightly spinning, hands shaking involuntarily. His thigh is unrecognisable. The cuts deep, really deep, more like gashes from a stab wound. What used to be pale, splattered with freckles, is a mess of slashes, a blood bath, an ugly reflection of how Ian's hands broke and ruined everything they touched.

There's so much blood.

_Too_ much blood. 

Mickey was going to kill him. Or this was going to kill Mickey. 

Ian could probably clean it up in the time Mickey would get home. Pretend that he spilt that Caribbean Twist shit that they had bought a couple of days before. It would be okay.

Then his mind flickers to Mickey; what was he doing?Where was he? How would he react when he saw the mess? Saw Ian? All these questions rattled Ian's mind, causing his knife to slip from his palm and crash to the tiles. 

Messily, in a blur, he grabs his phone.  _Suicide list._

 

_**To: Mick:** _ Mick

 

From where Mickey's sat in the bar, shoved on a stool with a mouth full of whisky, rolling his eyes towards Kevin's ongoing ridiculous jokes, he feels his back pocket vibrate. Pulling out his phone, he barely squints at the message, already knowing who it was. 

 

_**To Ian:** _ Hey Gallagher u comin in today? 

 

The reply chucks Ian back, like a bullet collided into his chest. Mickey had no idea. No one did. It wasn't fair to bring him into the shell of Ian's problems, ruin him like he ruined himself. He knows Mickey, he knows he would get angry and try and send him for some help. Ian knew that he needed it, but it didn't change how he felt about it. Mickey had even cried once, into Ian's chest, and Ian would never forget that internal guilt that lasted for months, that he still had now. Ian couldn't let Mickey feel like that again. 

Because it's Mickey. 

Ignoring Mickey's question, he texts, 

 

_**To Mick:** _ What are you doing?

 

The reply is slightly delayed, 

 

_**To Ian:** _ Listenin to Frank talk shit. Shouldnt u be at work?

 

Ian glances at the clock. Yes, he should be at the store right now, renewing his old job before Linda kicks his ass out. But it seems worthless now, though, everything did. 

 

_**To Mick;** _ I guess

 

Mickey does recognise Ian's off tone, but shrugs it off. Ian had been stressed for the past couple of days; with work, trying to get back into school, trying to bring money in. It didn't stop him from asking through. 

 

_**To Ian:** _ U okay? 

 

Ian seems struck at the words on the screen of his phone, repeating them over and over in his head. He was really getting sick of those words now; people treating him like glass, asking him every day, waiting for him to crack, to explode just like Monica had. He guessed, looking down towards his legs, the slight cut against his wrist, he did. They were right.

He smiles to himself, almost manically.  _ Was  _ he okay? He didn't even know the meaning of that word anymore. It felt like years since he was  _ okay.  _

Looking down at the dropped knife, whilst he absently presses a finger into the deep cuts, he lifts it, waving it before his face. He wasn't scared of it anymore. None of it scared him. That's why he tested how much pain he could take; because he couldn't feel anything. 

His eyes begin to droop. 

 

_**To Ian:** _ Gallagher?

 

Ian doesn't even hear the buzz of his phone, his mind is all fuzzy, light headed. He's lost, so fucking lost, and he can't bring himself back up from the surface of his mind, of this  _ disorder.  _

The buzzing continues, like a constant reminder that someone was still trying. 

 

_**To Ian:** _ Ian answer the fuckin phone

 

Mickey begins to panic, he has the right too, if anyone could remember the last time. He downs his drink, signalling to Kev that something was up. His chest burns, eyes glaring towards the on-going dial of the phone call. “Come the fuck on, Ian.” 

 

_**To Ian:** _ I swear to fuck Ian you better answer

 

Ian's getting dizzy now, head knocking back against the tiles he's pressed up against. There's a strand of red hair falling before his face, and even that had traces of blood on it. He feels his leg burning, deeper this time, and he only notices that his hand is pressed flat against the cuts when he doesn't bother to move it. 

He can't remember the last time he was this tired; not even when he had stayed in bed for a week. 

He's trying hard to grip onto consciousness, but everything is fading.

He's not sure if he even minds, it would be a positive thing for everyone. One less burden. 

 

_**To Ian:** _ What the fuck is going on? 

 

Mickey pulls on his coat in a rush, taking the shot that was laid before him on the bar top. He leaves, leaving no notice of where he was going, before heading out into the street. He waits for Ian to text, waits for him to bluff it out or something, but he knows it might be serious. That Ian might actually be sick again, or worse; in danger. 

Ian had told Mickey about cutting, the whole period where he couldn't control it. Mickey didn't really understand, but Ian was grateful that he tried. The sense of emptiness, hopelessness, was beginning to thrive off of his skin, eat away at him. The medication didn't help either. Nothing did.

Ian wasn't in control. The voices in his head were. 

Slowly, he tries to move, his joints aching as he shifts a little. The pain isn't dying down as he wanted it to, as it should, it's just getting worse, his leg shaking. His head is pounding, clenching as if it's a migraine, the voices in his head screaming louder and louder.  _ End it. End it.  _

It's not meant to be like this. It's all wrong. He didn't want to be Monica and yet he  _ was.  _ He's sat in a puddle of blood, still warm beneath him, gradually expanding as the clock ticks by. He was like his mother, he always had been, and even when he tried to disprove it, it always ended like this. 

His skin grows cold, pale, under the blood painted on them. His arms are shaking wildly, tingly as if there wasn't enough life in them. Ian's scared, terrified, he doesn't know what to do. 

_ What has he fucking done? _

In his blurry state, he remembers; Mickey. Mickey would help, Mickey would save him like he always done, like he always would. He'd whisk him up, clean the cuts, keep him close to his chest. Wouldn't he? 

In a shudder, he weakly takes his time to type; 

 

_**To Mick:** _ I've fucked up Mickey.

 

The words take ages to type, his mind refusing to remember what to say, telling him that he should just leave it. Let himself die. 

 

_**To Ian:** _ What the fuck have you done? IAN?

 

Mickey's running now. Millions of scenarios form in his head, all leading to the negative result. He knows Ian pretty well by now to understand that the text was a call for help. He runs for the house, the only place he knows Ian would be. He hopes. 

 

_**To Mick:** _ I don't know. Its everywhere 

 

Ian doesn't know. He'll never know. What  _ has  _ he done? 

 

_**To Mick:** _ there's blood everywhere Mick 

 

In a hopeless rush, Ian weakly reaches for something. Toilet paper, ah. He grabs it off the roll and presses it into his leg, soaking it fully in seconds, disintegrating against the mess. For what he doesn't know is that Mickey's full speed down the street, dodging through alley ways, nearly getting hit by cars and screaming drivers. All he does know is that Mickey hadn't text back yet. 

Maybe he didn't want to. Maybe this time Mickey had finally given up. He's had enough. 

Ian releases a sob, a pain shooting through his chest as he does so. Fuck. 

Blood smears all over the screen;

 

_**To Mick:** _ It won't stop

 

Mickey feels like he might hurl, like he might even pass out, because he knows what Ian's referring to. Blood. His blood. Hurting himself because he felt worthless. Mickey hated the fact that he couldn't stop it, that he couldn't save Ian from his own mind. That beautiful mind that Mickey both loved and hated at the same time; but he could never hate it, could he? It was all Ian. 

The thing was, he might be losing Ian. He might lose the only person he truly cared about, just like family, and he wasn't there to save him. 

 

_**To Ian:** _ Dont fucking move im coming

 

Ian only just forces out a smile, eyes fluttering to stay open. He may be a shivering mess, close to death, slumped against the bathroom wall, but there was still hope. Mickey was coming. 

Mickey was coming. 

 

_**To Mick:** _ Mickey

 

Ian doesn't want that to be his farewell. 

 

_**To Ian:** _ Ian hold on im nearly there

 

Ian sends the message whilst grabbing another handful of tissue, trying to stop the blood from oozing out of his leg. Ignoring the reply, he smiles in a sickening tranquillity, watching as the tissue slowly stained, red blood climbing through it. It was fucked up, sure, but it showed he was still alive. He looks up at the bathroom door, noticing that he had locked it, shit. 

There was no way he could reach up, his leg was nearly unmoving, the gashes too deep to try and move, or dab away. The knife had sliced the skin right open, blood continuing to pour out. There was no hope. These cuts couldn't just disappear. 

His eyes are sinking lower and lower, vision fading. 

Just one last message. 

 

_**To Mick:** _ hurry 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Blackout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \- The next chapter will be a sort of fix it, you will see. - 
> 
> The first chapter was more of Ian, this one was Mickey. Obviously, you know where I'm going with this, the next will be the both of them. Longer too.

Run.

Run.

That's all Mickey ran through his head, legs nearly buckling beneath him. _Blood._ That's all he could hear over and over. Ian's blood was everywhere – that made Mickey want to hurl.

Mickey hadn't text Ian back, forgetting in the rush of getting back. So, Ian had sat in that bathroom, head dropping down towards his chest, back slumped against the tiles, with nothing to keep him awake. He waits for the buzz, but it never comes, the silence causing his eyes to droop. His eyes were seeing more red than anything else, burning his lids, and the awful smell of his blood began to make him nauseous.

The only thing he can do is let his eyes close, let his hands fall flat against the cold floor, not really trying to think of where Mickey might be because his head pounded, throbbing massively. It feels like weights were pulling on his eyelids, sticking his eyes together, and the problem was once he closed them he knew he wouldn't be able to open them again.

Mickey pulls out his phone again, nearing the top of the street where the house was, the dial rings and rings. Nothing. Shit. He lunges over the metal clicked fence, climbing the steps two by two, shoving the front door open. Frantically, he searches the house, from the kitchen to the bedroom; and then he remembers last time, the one place that Ian could lock himself in.

The sweet smell of of blood draws him into their bathroom. He pushes against the door, and as expected it's locked.

Mickey's fist collides against the door as his chest collides with his chest, “Ian?!” There's no answer. Nothing. He hits the wood again, a break shaking in his voice. “Ian, open the fucking door!” Still. Nothing. Ian didn't answer. Why wouldn't he answer?

In that split second, Mickey pulls out his gun aiming it towards the lock of the bathroom door. The trouble is, he's not sure where about Ian is in the bathroom, whether the bullet could shoot him or not. Either way, he needed to get in there. He needed to get to Ian.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

The door swings open with a swift kick to its middle, it hits against its hinges, swinging back towards Mickey. Without a breath, Mickey rushes in, and all he sees is red. Red. Red. Red. Ian's blood was everywhere, sprayed against the tiled floor, a puddle formed underneath the body that Mickey could hardly recognise. There's a huge knife beside him, big enough to stab someone to death, sharp enough to cut through skin. Mickey feels his legs buckle, mouth growing dry from the immanent reak of blood that stained the room. Ian's legs a mess, scattered with cuts, blood oozing from each gash. Ian's head is lolled to the side, out of life, drained, his hair all ratted and torn. In that look, that image, his heart fell to pieces.

“Fuck.” He cries out, hand running through his hair. He rushes over to Ian, just like every time, grabbing a towel and quickly wrapping it around the wounds still fresh against his thigh. “Shit. Ian what the fuck have you done? Ian, What the _fuck._ ” He mutters and mutters, unsure whether Ian could even hear him, never-mind answer. His hands unsure which place to help first.

 _So_ much blood. _Too_ much blood. " _Fuck,_ Ian." His voice turns to a sob, insides clawing out. No. This couldn't be happening. Not Ian.

And underneath all that red, is the colour of pearly white. The colour that Mickey had kissed the night before, the skin that his fingertips had traced through the dizziness of sleep. It was hard to think that this boy, lying there dying, was the same confident man he had fallen for. It was frightening. Mickey felt himself shake uncontrollably.

His fingers search for a pulse against Ian's wrist as the towel soaks up the blood, turning fully red. The gashes in Ian's thigh too deep to control, too deep to understand, too deep to keep life pumping through Ian's veins.

“ _Ian,”_ He pleads, hand gripping to the side of his face, thumb stroking against the rough skin, blood smearing across the pale cheeks. He leans in closer, tears falling from his eyes as Ian's head is lolled to the side, eyes pressed closed. Ian's body was unmoving, fragile, full of red and Mickey felt himself shaking. Just as Ian was. “Ian, stay with me.”

Ian makes a slight groaning sound, before it stops completely, his body shooting out violent shocks. “No. No. No.” Mickey utters, falling to his knees, hands on either side of Ian's face, trying to talk him into opening his eyes. Ian's lips are blue. Fucking blue. They should be red, full of life, kissing him. His body is limp, all cold and shivering, and Mickey hates it. He hates Ian like this. Ian was meant to be alive, living, watching the fucking sunrise.

When Mickey rings for an ambulance, it comes in 15 minutes. It might be too late, or just on time. He doesn't know. When they find him, his hands are holding Ian. The redhead was scooped up to his chest, the blood pressured by his palm to stop. Mickey's crying all over the place, rocking the lifeless body in his arms, pleading and pleading. “Help, fucking help, he's- just- fucking-” And they take him.

They take Ian.

There was always something taking him away. This. The disorder. Life.

And Mickey couldn't breathe, he couldn't move, his hands curled in on himself. His white shirt now Red. Red like Ian's hair. All of it. And he tells himself that he wouldn't change. Then Mickey finds himself in a car, they don't let him in the back with Ian.

He punched a couple of them; but really, he's not worried about that. He's worried that they'll tell him that Ian wasn't breathing, that his life had been ripped away from him. Just like that.

It all a blur really, walking through the white doors, doctors coming over and asking him questions. The same demand leaves his mouth, desperately, “ _Where is he?”_ or “ _Let me fucking see him._ ” And obviously they are all declined. That scares him more.

They make him wait hours, three to be exact, and in that time the Gallagher's had finally turned up, screaming at doctors, ripping Mickey to sheds for leaving him like that, crying all over the place. Surprisingly, Lip held himself together, even when Mickey couldn't. Even when Mickey crumbled in his seat and shook into horrific sobs that couldn't stop.

“It's not your fault, Mickey.” Lip tells him, voice sincere for the first time in his life. Awkwardly, his hand pats against Mickey's back, like Mickey would of done to Ian years before. God, how he wished he could turn back time. “You did everything you could.” The fact that Lip's words were put into the past tense made him crack further, made the walls tumble in a crash against the fields of his heart.

_You did_

_you did_

That's the question, what _did_ Mickey do? What _didn't_ he do?

In the midst of his fall, he scratches harshly into his scalp, blood still evident on his fingers, slashed against the ink on his knuckles. _Fuck_ indeed. Huffing out greatly, his mind banishes him with flashes of Ian's smile, laugh, touch, fucking smell. It's all there; and in one split second it wasn't. How could he be so stupid? _How,_ was a question. He shifts a little, feeling the Gallagher's eyes bore into him. With a breath, he speaks up, “He needs help. Not just some fucking medication prescribed. _Real_ help. This can't keep happening.”

It couldn't keep happening, because one day Mickey might be too late, that text might never come through. One day no one would hear Ian's cry for help and Mickey wouldn't be able save him this time. If he ever saved him at all, that is.

Lip nods, wiping his eyes. “You know out of all people that he won't go to some shrink.”

Mickey already knows that, he _knew_ that back then.

“I don't give a shit,” He finally comes off strong, trying to regain his strength for the sake of Ian. One of them needed to control, one of them needed to take care of things, at this point it was Mickey. It had always been Ian, always. Lip gives him wide eyes. “If he doesn't want to go we'll just have to drag him there.”

The Gallagher's go to protest, jump in and stop the agreement, but as usual Mickey would block them out. They thought they knew the best for Ian, mainly for the fact that they had dealt with it before. But that failed, didn't it? Monica had slit her wrists on the kitchen floor, bleeding out to let death just welcome her in. Just had Ian had. Mickey needed to take care of this. Together.

“Me, you, _us,_ we're his fucking family.” Mickey points to them all, because like it or not they were all in this together. As much as Ian didn't want that they would _always_ be there to help him. Lip nods his head, shuddering a little. Mickey has a calmed, but still all he sees is red. Red. _Fucking red._ It was funny really, because no matter what, he had always seen red, right?

Lip sighs, “You really care about him, don't you?”

“He's just-” Mickey starts. He did, didn't he? He cared for Ian more than he had with anyone in his whole life. From the start, he felt himself protecting him, saving him, secretly ushering him away from the darkness. But it was never enough. Ian's mind had always been strong, loud, and this time it had taken the better of him. “He's just _everything”_

Really, Everything was how to describe it. Ian wasn't just a speck in his life, a little flick that one day Mickey would wipe off clean and never see again. Ian wasn't just some person who happened to pop in his life, he was some _fucker_ who had gripped under the layers of his skin, embedding inside of his heart. There was no true words that could describe the form, the being, of Ian Gallagher. It was unexplainable. Mickey still didn't understand, or know, how Ian would touch him, how his eyes sparkled and made his stomach flip, how his hands shook each time Ian spoke out his name. Ian _was_ everything.

And that everything could be gone.

Because Mickey wasn't there.

 _Why_ wasn't he there?

Mickey had failed the only person that he wanted, that he _needed._ How could he fail the only person that he promised to keep safe?

The doctor walks over, that sympathetic look they always used on patients families clear on his face. Mickey's stomach drops, turns, does flips, trying to push out the awaiting sobs. They all run up, hands shaking, mouth rambling. The doctor puts a firm hand out, glancing down to the pool of blood still drying against Mickey's shirt. “...Ian lost a lot of blood. Because of that we have put him on a life support machine, which controls his breathing, blood capacity and movement..”

That's it. That's when he feels it. The words just tumbling like bricks. The world going slower.

Mickey knew what life support was, what it did, why people needed it. What the end was. "No-" He tries to gasp out, but his throat is dry, his neck is heaving in sweat, and the whole of his body contains that shocking shake he felt when he had found Ian. He looks down to his shirt, his hands... _life support._

The room goes blurry, the floor getting closer, the room spinning, voices fading; Mickey's body slams to the floor.

Blackout.


End file.
